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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23532214">Loss</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatOneWriter15/pseuds/ThatOneWriter15'>ThatOneWriter15</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, F/M, POV Second Person, Sex, Smut</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 15:42:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,336</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23532214</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatOneWriter15/pseuds/ThatOneWriter15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Set at the beginning of 2.22 ("All Hell Breaks Loose: Part II"), you learn about Dean's demon deal and things get heated.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dean Winchester/Original Female Character(s), Dean Winchester/Reader, Dean Winchester/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>56</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Loss</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As your heavy eyes refocus, unfamiliar surroundings and unforeseen circumstances quickly fall back into place. How awful it is to regain consciousness and realize reality is more of a nightmare than the traumatic events that flashed through your slumbering mind. You would fight the imaginary werewolf pack that haunted your dreams a thousand times before you’d prefer being right here, right now. </p><p>Palms relying on lore books, legal pads, and a decade’s worth of dust, you push your slumped body off the humble dining table and upright in your wobbly chair. You groan as you tear a Post-It from your cheek, uncertain if its adhesion to your skin is due to its backing or to your drool.</p><p>A pair of capped pens remind you that you got nowhere in your research, which is devastatingly unsurprising. Your gaze lifts. The new view causes your stomach to twist. Sam has been <em> rotting </em> in the next room for <em> days</em>, and it’s become clear that there’s no advisable way to revive him. A small, logical part of you wants to quit. But ceasing trying would mean you’ll never talk or laugh or hunt with one of your best friends again. Sam’s beaming smile and huge heart would be lost forever. And you can’t bear that.</p><p><em> You </em>can’t bear that.</p><p>And then there’s <em> Dean</em>.</p><p>A hollow darkness has consumed the eldest Winchester since the loss of his brother, his grief manifesting itself as rage, recklessness, and defeat. He even kicked Bobby--<em>Bobby</em>--out of the house. </p><p>Dean’s headspace scares you shitless. So, you pore over centuries-old literature, clinging to the slightest sliver of hope. </p><p>Because you can’t lose <em> both of them</em>.</p><p>Your last splash of coffee is cold as it swamps your dry tongue. You ignore the nearly-empty bottles of whiskey littering the tabletop in favor of Dean’s abandoned to-go cup. The fragile tumbler of styrofoam mingles among pages of false promises. Stealing a swig of caffeine, you wonder where Dean went. The obvious answer seeps in:<em>The corner of the bedroom, keeping a lonely vigil over his baby brother’s corpse. </em></p><p>You rattle your head. <em> No. Don’t picture that. </em> Curving your hands to create blinders, you block out as much as possible and fixate on a chapter of Latin.</p><p>A floorboard creaks, and your heart sinks. Well, there goes pretending. </p><p>“Why didn’t you wake me?” you ask…</p><p><em> Sam </em>?</p><p>Gasping, you jump up from your chair and stand behind it, using it as a nonviable shield.</p><p>Sam groans as he leans his shoulder against the bedroom’s splintered doorframe for support. Why is he so dizzy? </p><p>“S-Sam?” you venture, already shaking.</p><p>“Who else?” Sam chuckles weakly. </p><p><em> Good question</em>. There's a flask of holy water at the far end of the table, but you have nothing else within reach. No salt, iron, silver... Everything’s around the corner. Outside. In Baby’s trunk. </p><p>Sam advances a few steps closer, skimming his fingers along nearby surfaces for fear he may faint. He’s still 15 feet away, but you retreat further, dragging the chair with you, until your hair hits the transparent curtains.</p><p>The wild look in your eyes causes one of Sam’s hands to rise in a gesture of surrender and caution. “What’s wrong?”     </p><p>You're calculating if you can dart to the front door and make it to the car unscathed when the familiar rumble of the Impala’s engine catches both your and Sam’s attention.</p><p>“Dean,” Sam mumbles absently. </p><p>Dean <em> left</em>? And you didn’t notice...? </p><p>The front door’s rusty hinges squeal as it flings open. Dean’s frantic gaze sweeps in Sam’s direction, and his destination is set. </p><p>“Sammy,” Dean exhales, traveling in long, fast strides. Careful not to touch Sam’s lower back, Dean embraces his little brother with all he’s got left. Tears creep up Dean’s throat, but, as with measured practice, he’s able to prevent them from reaching his tired eyes. </p><p>Then, Dean sees <em> you</em>. </p><p>Your expression is a combination of horror and sorrow, and he <em> knows</em>. You've figured it out.</p><p><em> He made a deal</em>. Your brain gives you this sentence, this explanation. And you want to refuse it, return it, request it in another size. But there's no doubt.</p><p>His arms still around Sam--who is beginning to squirm--Dean silently begs you. <em> Don’t say anything. Don’t tell him. Please. </em></p><p>“Dean…” Sam breaks the wordless conversation. The big brother pulls away. </p><p>Dean’s answers to Sam’s urgent questions string together as a web of lies. Your ears muffle the long-winded tale as your thoughts crank into overdrive. Dean all but ushers Sam to a seat at the table, and their movement snaps you out of it.</p><p>“Yeah, good. Take it easy, man.” Dean slides a box of day-old pizza in front of Sam, effectively sending most of the revealing lore books fluttering to the floor. “Eat. Get some of your strength back.”  </p><p>“Better hydrate, too.” You extend your last bottle of water to Sam. </p><p>“Thanks.” Sam offers you a grateful-but-mildly-bewildered smile. </p><p>“I need to talk with your brother,” you blurt out. “<em>Dean</em>.” You're halfway up the stairs before you hear Dean’s boots stalking across the wooden floor.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>“A <em> year </em>?”</p><p>You can’t even <em> look at </em> Dean after learning what he’s agreed to. Your arms crossed, you stare out the misty second-story window. The trees sway in the breeze, seemingly as unsteady as you feel.</p><p>Dean stands against the opposite wall, hoping to shrink into nothingness while wedged between the doorway and a tall dresser. He’d dreaded your reaction for good reason.</p><p>His lack of response only adds to your fury. You whirl around to face him. “A fucking <em> year</em>?!”</p><p>Dean’s attention remains glued to the stained fuchsia carpet. He did what he had to do. This, he knows. But that doesn’t stop the guilt stirring in his gut. </p><p>He’s not <em> hearing </em>you. Irate, you bound over to him, crowding him.</p><p>Dean’s gaze drags upward to meet yours. Instantly, he wishes he could douse the fire flaming in your eyes. He’ll never forgive himself for setting it alight in the first place. Seeing you this way is unbearable. </p><p>The utter despair in his expression forces you to exhale. Your layers of outrage begin to shed, leaving you stripped of your armor. All that remains is vulnerability. Hurt. Fear.</p><p>“A year?” you choke out. Dean swallows. And suddenly, you're back to who you were a couple of days ago. Before Sam disappeared, died. Before Dean sold his goddamn soul. In that dismal room, it’s just you and Dean--two Hunters who have grown immensely close through stupid jokes, teamwork, and tragedy.  </p><p>And, hell, if this very minute isn’t the definition of “tragic.” Because it’s one of the limited few you have left to spend together.</p><p>There is no time to waste. </p><p>Your hands slide along the pronounced path of Dean’s jaw, keeping him in place as you survey the depths of his immobile stare. </p><p>The moment is overwhelmingly intimate, and Dean finds himself yearning for things he’s spent years burying. </p><p>Too fried to listen to the dissuasive voice in your head, you slowly lean forward and allow your lips to meet his. The merger only lasts a second. </p><p>Dean’s nearly convinced your actions were all in his head. Another one of those rare, comforting dreams that come to him in the dead of night. Those dreams he clings to for as long as possible before rising to face a new, nightmarish day. He’s terrified to speak or move, for you might rescind it. Say it was a mistake. Walk away. And yet, like relinquishing his soul to save Sam, Dean’s positive it was <em> right</em>. He gently wraps his fingers around your wrists, preserving your touch.   </p><p>Dean’s gesture gives you the green light. You kiss him two, three, four more times. The taste of him mixes with suppressed desperation and emotion, and you’re already addicted to the concoction.  </p><p>The sensation of your mouth on his is a <em> fucking salvation</em>. Your warmth, energy, <em> life </em> flows into him like the low hum of an electric current. His heart races as he drinks in your power.</p><p>Your kisses deepen, and your grip lowers to the lapel of his blue army jacket. Dean’s arms fall to his sides. He’s wanting--oh, he’s excruciatingly <em> craving </em> --but not taking. <em> He’s </em> the one who made the choice at that crossroads. <em> He’s </em> the one leaving. He can’t initiate something he won’t be around to finish. Not with you.</p><p>Through the cloud of intoxication, you're aware of his restraint. You reluctantly pull back a few inches. “You can touch me, Dean.” </p><p>Those five words, his name on your tongue, and your breathy voice draw a soft whimper from him. He’d be damned--or <em> further </em>damned--to pass up an opportunity he’s fantasized about a million times when you’ve so graciously allowed it to drop at his feet.</p><p>Dean’s callused-but-gentle hand tilts your chin as <em> he </em> kisses <em> you</em>. His sweet mouth conveys all the thank-yous, all the I’m-sorrys, all the I’ve-wanted-this-for-so-longs without a spoken syllable. </p><p>You are genuinely light-headed as Dean works his magic on you. Concerned you may collapse, you brace yourself by holding his waist. He follows your lead, his hands drifting to the hem of your plaid button-down.</p><p>The two of you exploring each other--it’s all too much. And yet not enough. You press your hips into his. </p><p>At the friction, a groan escapes Dean’s throat. He’s already hard. So hard, in fact, it’s painful. But that pain is a welcome distraction from the agony of the past few days.</p><p>“Please,” you whisper in his ear.</p><p>He catches your eye. “You sure?” He’s not the praying type, but that doesn’t stop him from wishing with all his might that your answer is <em> yes</em>.</p><p>Dean’s been through the wringer in the last 72 hours. Sam’s still downstairs--and probably wondering what’s taking you so long. You know what you want, but if he’s not up for it, you’d understand. “I’m sure if you’re sure.”</p><p>Dean knocks the wind out of you as he lifts you off your feet, twirls you around, and guides you back to the wall. His mouth lightly sucks at your neck while your pulse pounds.</p><p>“De-Dean,” you pant, laying your hand on his chest. </p><p>He stops his ministrations immediately, his stomach plummeting. <em> She talked herself out of it. </em></p><p>You point behind him, to your duffel. When you first arrived at the abandoned house, you’d claimed this room as your bedroom, but never ended up using it, let alone sleeping in it. “My bag. Blue case.”</p><p>Relief floods him. “Got it.” </p><p>You save time by removing your shoes, jeans, and underwear while Dean grabs the condom. Kicking your clothes aside, you notice how wet you are. Perhaps getting a little carried away, you rip open your shirt, exposing your lacy, black bra.</p><p>Dean traps the tiny packet’s edge between his teeth as he unbuckles his belt. When he turns to see you--half-naked, breathing heavily, clenching your thighs together--the foil falls from his gaping mouth. He curses as he bends to retrieve it. </p><p>You hold the wrapper as Dean quickly shrugs out of his jacket and flannel. The gold of his necklace glints like lightning against his stormy-gray Henley. He shoves his jeans and boxer briefs down as far as they’ll go, to his ankles. He’s not wasting precious seconds untying and extracting his boots. </p><p>Your legs weaken as you watch him sheath his ravishing length in rubber.  </p><p>Despite being ready, the two of you pause for several heartbeats. To savor the moment. To commemorate when you’ve crossed that line. </p><p>Dean’s cheeks are a rosy pink beneath his freckles. His just-on-this-side-of-shy smile leaves him glowing. Before you stands the purest, most-loving man you've ever known.</p><p>He studies your eyes, as if memorizing their color, their sheen for a portrait he’ll never paint. No recreation could possibly do you justice, anyway. You're more than an image; you are melody, grace, and benevolence.</p><p>The energy between both of you suddenly changes, and Dean’s hands cascade over the swell of your rear to the back of your thighs. He squeezes them delicately, and you hop into his arms. You're overwhelmed by how incredibly tender he is. His touch is somehow even softer than you imagined it would be. He steps forward, and your spine greets the floral wallpaper. </p><p>Readjusting position, Dean slips his forearms under the backs of your knees to give the two of you some leverage. Your calves now dangle at his sides, and your fingers curl in the short strands of his hair.</p><p>“You okay?” Dean checks.</p><p>“Yes,” you expel.</p><p>“Okay,” he whispers.</p><p>You welcome him with a gasp. Your head snaps backward as you celebrate his size.</p><p>Your heat sends him reeling. “<em>Fuck</em>, sweetheart,” he breathes. Despite knowing you two could be caught at any minute, he <em> relishes </em>you for a few slow strokes.</p><p>Your hands explore everywhere they can reach, creating a snapshot of the man you’ve been silently in love with for years. </p><p>Dean’s skin blazes below your fingertips, turns to ice once your touch trails elsewhere. He scatters kisses on your eyelids, jaw, throat, and collarbone. His head dips to your covered breasts and he inhales your scent. He couldn’t get enough of you if he tried.</p><p>You're lighter than air as he worships you--with the exception of your heart. Refusing to let the stone in your chest pull you under, you wrap one arm around Dean’s shoulders and the other around his waist, crushing him to you. </p><p>Your muffled moans encourage Dean to delve into you a little faster, a little deeper. He bites his plump bottom lip to stay quiet.</p><p>“Baby…” you warn.</p><p>Dean nods. “Me, too.” </p><p>As soon as his rhythm becomes erratic, Dean’s lips meld with yours. His kiss is ecstasy, adoration, and reverence. </p><p>It’s a goodbye.</p><p>A couple of shattered souls in perfect sync, you both wind up with tears streaking your cheeks.</p><p>The two of you finish nearly simultaneously as Dean’s watch ticks to midnight. Already another day closer to the end. </p>
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